


History and Time

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Attics, Gen, Grim Reapers, House Cleaning, Letters, Pre-Canon, Present Tense, Reflection, Shinigami, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 11:58:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5003971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A several-decades-pre-canon William tidies his attic, throws a hissy fit about Grell and breaks down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History and Time

**Author's Note:**

> Riddled with headcanons, apologies.  
> Further apologies for how much of a dick Will is being here about Grell's gender (and everything else about Grell).

The last golden fringes of April are dying back, their stretched evening fingers pushing smiling wedges of light through the archaic windows to drift down onto the greying floorboards of the attic. The windows are open, allowing a gentle breeze to murmur through heaped sheaves of stacked papers, bundled and forgotten amongst lampshades and degenerating cardboard boxes.

It's the end of spring, so naturally William has taken it upon himself to finally spring-clean. The house has only been his for a few months now, the pay increase resulting from his promotion having allowed him to finally move out of the awful council flats that default the residential areas of the realm. This house had been sitting vacant for some time, its previous owner one of the few reapers in recent history to have actually achieved forgiveness and moved on, and it had stood untouched since that moment as though waiting for its next resident's eventual arrival.

It is a little far from the office, right on the edges of reaper London – he can see the edge out of the corners of his peripheral vision, sometimes, if he takes his glasses off – which make jumping to work more strenuous than it had been, but the silence is worth it. There are no more crashing neighbourly noises at 3am, no more inebriated layabouts from god-knows-which-department stumbling drunken to his door, and, possibly most notably, one Grell Sutcliff now has no idea where William lives now and cannot come creeping round whenever he feels fit.

It is so very, very quiet.

Not that his is the only house in this bespreaded neighbourhood – there is another empty house even closer to the edge, and two more on the side nearer town. These are inhabited by one of the heads of the secretarial staff – a blonde woman with a face like a hawk – and an administrator who is in charge of foreign communications, who is usually living abroad.

Both are more than five centuries William's senior, and he has decided without any particular difficulty that he will not bother either of them with his presence at all. He is young, after all – having only been dead for half a century his experiences would mean little to beings as old as they – and he has the feeling that inviting company would also quickly invite that great companion of company, trouble.

His silent house needs cleaning. The kitchen was easy, because he uses it with some frequency, and the bedroom had likewise been sorted already. The other rooms, though – there's more than one sitting room, and hallways, and spare rooms, and a small library, and a laundry room – have all been reorganized, swept, dusted and laid back to rest over the course of this day. He has left the loft until last because it is an almost entirely unfamiliar area, untouched as of yet by his hand. He is not going to admit to himself that he has been procrastinating going up here to avoid sifting through a dead man's possessions. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say a _deader_ man's possessions.

The council repossesses all of a reaper's material wealth upon forgiveness or passing, of course, officially, but sometimes among that stock that they take there is a glut of objects deemed useless – personal things with no value or use, out of date letters and unsigned forms – and they are merely left with the house, if there is a house. If a council flat is the residence of a reaper who moves on all that is left behind without cause is usually just burned.

The wind brushes the touch of a ghost across William's carefully emotionless visage, and he tries to decide where to start.

There are so many boxes.

After a considerate pause, he decides to go through the papers first. They seem to make up a majority of the debris, and seem likely be of little or no importance whatsoever, so he can hopefully dispose of them without trouble.

Paperwork is, after all, an activity that he has proven himself good at.

And so William steps into the shafts of yellow light that fill the attic, surprisingly warm through the glass, and begins to sort through the bundles of words whose meaningfulness has been lost to time. The first three piles are bills for various things, filed meticulously enough that is almost a crying shame to disturb and then condemn them, but what else can he do? It would be wholly impractical to keep every paid bill that has nothing to do with him up here. 

Another box holds what looks like official paperwork, unsigned and crisp as though new, and he thumbs through them out of curiosity before deciding to return them to the office to find out if they can be reused. Some of them seem to be generic – blank forms for allowing days off or condemning particularly nasty overtime to a nameless individual, transfer forms, several typed up requests for minor changes to Personnel – but others are obviously specific. One harsh-worded form, its writer's anger breaking through the walls of the years it had lain undisturbed, demanding an agreement on the direct removal of one S. Milligan from the Collections staff. Several forwards about the purchase of one exact brand of inkwell, now out of make, and, right at the back, one unsigned termination order for the same S. Milligan.

Another dead man now, William assumes – he has gotten to know almost everyone in the London dispatch, and there certainly is no one of that name in Collections anymore. He can't even recall there being when he was in the academy. The forms are undated and offer no help.

He places them in a neat stack for recycling.

Another box is filled to bursting with letters, clearly personal things as evidenced by their sentimentality from the start of each; William does not read them, telling himself that he doesn't because he isn't interested, not because he doesn't want to invade the peaceful privacy of another's passed existence, and replaces them in the same box that they came from, pushing it far to the back of the attic. But as he does this, a pile of dusty artefacts – heaped and jumbled together in great disorder – are knocked, and cascade down upon him. William swears, and tries to make sense of the clutter. 

He catches sight of a chain just as it slips away from him, glinting gold as each link slithers down the side of the box, and without thinking his hand follows it down, disgruntled at its attempt to escape into the papers. _You don't belong there._

The pocket watch that he pulls from its hiding place is elegant and broken, both hands having lapsed into silence at some point in the past. Did it tick itself out in this forgotten room, or was it placed here after it had chimed its last hour? He flicks it open to find both hands motionless on twelve, and an inscription sanded out of existence on the inside of the lid. There is no point in wondering what it said.

The fact that the watch is broken annoys him.

Its purpose is to tick, to follow the ebb and flow of time through the days, keeping beat like a metal heart. Devoid of that ability, it is functionless.

William is no mechanic – he doesn't have a head for tinkering or machines, and he'll be damned if he goes out to have this watch fixed by someone skilled in that field, because he has no desire to keep the timepiece. It is not his.

He knows a whole handful of people who could fix it, of course, if he wanted them to. And they would probably be happy to do it, grinning at him if he asked, batting eyelashes and suggesting that one favour be repaid by another and sidling closer and putting those slim, clever fingers on his body instead of the watch and _damn_ Grell Sutcliff, damn that filthy twisted bastard to Hell!

Grell Sutcliff's very existence stresses William out, so he does his best not to think about the bloody red-head or any of his imbecilic flirtations or antics, and much of the time he does succeed. He retreats into the solitude of his home or the isolation of the busy mortal streets and pretends that he was partnered with someone else - _anyone_ else – in the final exam and that he had never met Grell, not in the academy and not as juniors and not as partners and not as seniors. Given one wish, the ability to change one thing about the course of his existence, William would edit Grell out of his time-line and forget everything red.

Of course, he doesn't have this choice. He has to put up with that idiot's incessant chatter and silly mistakes, every day that he's in work, every minute that Grell consciously or unconsciously decides to get under his skin. He has to deal with every stupid little transgression, every single slip-up that the shark-grinning bastard decides to throw at him.

And why? Why does Grell feel the need to push him and preen and press for something that is the opposite of what he should want?

William doesn't know. That is perhaps what annoys him more than anything.

He wasn't always like this – Grell, that is. William admittedly never had the misfortune to meet the man when they had only just died, and only heard rumours of the red-head that was wrecking havoc in the academy right up until the point that they were thrown together in the final exam. But then, Grell had been different. Prone to flying off into violent rages that have tapered and transformed over the years into dramatic monologues and frankly embarrassing speeches, given to blind violence which has fallen through in place of progressively more unsettling innuendo, and generally set upon being much, much better than everybody else.

He also often used to want to attack people as well, taking any excuse to fly into an offended rage and attempt to kick their criticisms out of them. Nowadays, he doesn't. His more usual route now is to wish to 'make love' to whomever catches his eyes and spend no small effort in pursuit of that, although William is as aware as everyone else that in spite of Grell's insipid simpering the heart is _not_ the organ that Grell is interested in acquiring from the men he courts.

He courts William far too often. It is irritating and unpleasant, and in spite of all William has done to dissuade it Grell seems in no mind to give up on his infantile hounding. He deems it a 'challenge', apparently, as though William is something exciting to be chased down like a fox in a hunt. That single-minded stubbornness is one character attribute that has not changed.

It is terrible and William hates him for it, more than he can remember having hated anyone before. Grell was a triple A student – the single most promising individual to have come from a good three decades either side of the year they had graduated in – and constantly and consistently he throws that talent aside, in exchange for what? Cheap bed-space with whomever will take him and the chance to finally let every single individual higher than him on their social chain down, again and again and again? He could have had the position William occupies now, easily – he could have been sitting three tiers above already if he wanted to. If he _applied_ himself to his work Grell could be the _pride_ of the dispatch – Hell, of the country, in reaper terms! - instead of its gaudiest laughing stock.

Aware that his simmering anger is reaching boiling point, William rather childishly – and he's fully aware of that – kicks over another box, sending papers cascading out onto the floor. Taking a moment to breathe, just breathe, and attempt to calm down he then kneels to start collecting them up again.

Grell caught him in the corridor yesterday, and perhaps that incident is why he's so prominent in William's mind at the current moment. Every time previously in which Grell has stopped him by the red reaper has attempted to flirt, or steal a kiss, or get very much too far into William's personal space and breath down his shirt. But yesterday – yesterday Grell's liquid eyes had been unreadable, and his voice had been low as though melancholy and he had caught William around the wrist instead of the waist.

“Will?” the conversation had started, in no way out of the norm. “Can I talk to you?”

“No,” had been his answer, again exactly to the letter of their usual discourse. Of course, true to form, Grell neglected to heed the denial.

“Darling – well, look, Will. You can't have failed to notice that I've been dropping hints for some time now – years now! - and I want you to start actually acknowledging it.”

“I am not going to sleep with you, Grell.” That was what he had assumed the man was on about, of course. He was not going to sleep with Grell now and unless something went drastically wrong in the future he was not going to sleep with Grell _ever_ , but of course somehow that message could penetrate Grell's thick skull.

Grell had giggled, very quietly, and fluttered his eyelashes like wings. That was the first time that William had realized how incredulously lengthy they were, and how dark.

“No, Will, not _that..._ Dear dear, fancy you saying something like that in the middle of the office, one would think we're not in polite company. No,” he'd hummed, taking a grandiose breath before expelling it in a form William really should have seen coming a mile off, but absolutely hadn't. “I want... Will, you need to refer to me as a woman.”

There had been silence.

“...I'm sorry, what?” 

“You need to refer to me as _she_ ,” Grell had stressed, for once without any sort of slyness in his eyes. “Please, darling, this-”

“Why on Earth do you want me to do that?” The confusion William had felt then had not lifted at all in the time that had elapsed since then.

“Because... I'm... a... woman.”

It had possibly been cruel to match the tone so exactly, but William had done so anyway. “No... you... really... aren't.”

“How would you know?” The tone had become suddenly furious and upset, creases appearing around those painted eyes. “How could _you_ possibly know what I am? You don't know a single _thing_ about me, you frigid prick, you've _never_ -”

“Get on with your work, Grell.” The conversation had ended on as normal a note as it had started, with Grell glaring and stamping away on those dreadfully impractical non-regulation heels and calling obscenities over his shoulder. The only difference was that usually the obscenities are sordid, not angry.

William has run the incident through his mind innumerable times since it occurred, and realized several things.

He's finally caught on to the significance of the length of Grell's hair, for a start. It falls to just below his shoulders, currently, as thoughtless as his footwear and about as distasteful. It's always been bright red – William supposes he cannot fault Grell for _that_ \- but it's kept brushed and clean to the point where it can serve no purpose other than vanity. And then there's his eyes, and the way he speaks, and the pale lack of blemishes on his face which - again - William has only just realized is due to women's make up.

It doesn't make sense.

Grell has always been severely effeminate, blatantly exposing his over-active homosexual tendencies and making no move to stop anyone from assuming him by some massive sleight of mind that he is a 'lady', but never before has he gone out of his way to be the one to point it out. Whatever else he is, Grell is a proud creature – he is the first to show off his physicality on any occasion that arises. He loves his body, and has no problem with letting people know that. Grell does not have self-esteem issues. Grell most certainly does not have _gender_ issues.

And yet now he has explicitly stated otherwise – to William, of all people! William doesn't know whether this is because Grell still clings onto some strange notion that they are 'friends' due to having spent the final exam partnered together, or if it's because he is his supervisor, and thus in some position of power over their mutual colleagues' opinions on the matter. It isn't relevant either way, because he intends to do nothing to help him.

What he is more than certain about is that Grell is doing this in an attempt to seduce someone into sleeping with him – or someones, it could be one man in the department or all of them – and that really, really irks William.

Grell Sutcliff is destroying himself. He will lose all respectability, maybe even his job as a Collections agent if he's not careful; William has heard the same rumours as everyone else has, that he would already have been demoted and quietly removed entirely had he not been so good at reaping in the field. But his paperwork is lax and his attitude toward the office is a distraction to everyone else working there and William worries – and it is worry, he can admit that – that Grell will be taken away.

He is short staffed as it is. He cannot afford to lose his most efficient subordinate, even if he were replaced by someone who did their paperwork on time. Even if it would mean no more lewd comments that make his skin crawl; even if it would mean no more noisy flirting, or lust-filled green eyes. William dislikes Grell, but the man can reap like... Well, like a death god.

The papers are all neatly in their box again, and William stands it next to the others. And then, in the sudden desire to bury himself in someone else's woes, he seizes the box of letters and skims through them.

The first is a letter of warm congratulations to the previous owner of the house for passing his final exam and crossing the threshold into reaperhood. William is forced to smile a little at the date – 1303; it's amazing that such a document has survived the years. He keeps smiling until he reads the name that accompanies the signature at the bottom, decreeing it to be from the passed reaper's ex-mentor.

It's one S. Milligan, and suddenly quite a few nasty realizations click into place. 

Scouring the rest of the box, William finds further confirmation of his fears; the letters from Milligan are professional but always retain a sense of pride in their words, and it is clear that the two were on good terms in spite of apparently being separate enough that they could not converse so often face-to-face. But then, abruptly they stop, and all further letters are not from friends or admirers but from an unnamed individual in Upper Management.

Said individual carries a curt, cold disgust in every correspondence, and each letter becomes more and more acidic in tone. The words swim past, glaring and vicious.

_“We regret to inform you that Simon Milligan, previously your subordinate and more previously your mentor, has gone missing.”_

_“The transgressions of Milligan cannot go ignored, you must give the order to have him removed; he is a liability, and cannot be allowed to continue-”_

_“We know you know where he is – you are withholding evidence vital to the safety of all in this realm; put personal feeling aside and let him go -”_

_“Three officers are dead. This is no longer in your hands.”_

_“We need you on the field, you know him best; you are his weakness-”_

_“Thank you for your aid in capturing the criminal. Your efforts are appreciated. His execution date is set for three days' time._

_You have our condolences.”_

_“Congratulations on your promotion. You have reached the point where we can ask no more of you; you have been forgiven._

_Thank you for your service.”_

William has never seen a termination order due to forgiveness, and slips it back into the box with slightly shaky fingers. He wonders which ghost it is that haunts this house, exactly – the one who lived here or the one he killed?

Dust glitters in the light, alive.

William adjusts his glasses once, and turns his attentions to a box full of old crockery. It seems unlikely that he will stumble across anything so unsettling in there.

He is still uncertain of his opinion on their whole system of being, the reapers. It is fair, he supposes, when he's feeling charitable. Each of them tried to escape life's bitter clutches early and somebody has to do death's dirty work.

But although he's a very young reaper he sometimes feels a very old man, and all he wants is the ability to rest. Put himself to rest again in as violent a manner as before, if needs be.

Like all shinigami, William cannot remember what drove him to off himself in his mortal life – he can recall only the final blazing instant, the clean tang of metal on his tongue and the supernovaic, crystalline agony of the back of his head shattering out into a million fragments of grey flesh and sharp edges of skull. Death is never pleasant; much less so when you are the one experiencing it. But he had thought it would bring him peace, apparently, and he could not have been more wrong.

Contrary to what the majority of his colleagues seem to believe, William does not enjoy doing paperwork. He knows he works himself to the bone; knows it's not good for his temperament to stay in the office past hours or attempt to arrive earlier in the morning to get that little extra done. But how could he do anything other than his best? Knowing how the system works – knowing that it could be a decade before he's allowed to abandon the system or an eternity – how can he not strive to go over and above what is required of him?

Some of his colleagues believe that this existence is a second chance; a renewal of the life they were so close to throwing away. William does not. He knows that this is nothing more than a punishment; a mandatory cycle of clipboards and reapings that will lull him to some third state of being without any further transgression on his part.

William wants to die.

He longs for it – yearns somewhat to know the soft touch of a silence that he has always failed to reach. There's no shame in the matter, or self-pity; it is, after all, the reason each and every one of them work for the dispatch, isn't it? Because every single one of them made the conscious decision that they didn't want to live. And now, forced to continue in a slightly different vein of living, William cannot seem to shake that particular conviction.

And so he works. He works and he works and he works, more like a machine than any creature of flesh and blood, in the interest of literally working himself to death. He does his best, consistently, knowing that he will be rewarded for it in the future.

And that is why he resents Grell so very bitterly.

It's not the man's mawkish fawning; it's not his disgusting displays of inappropriate sexuality or nigh-constant harassment. It's the fact, pure and simple, that he doesn't do his _job_ \- he does not conduct reaps on time, he does not hand in paperwork completed to a high enough standard, and he certainly has no regard for his partner or superior's professional health in either respect.

Grell is keeping him alive. Grell is _preventing_ him from dying, and William hates him for it.

Because if Grell could only control himself enough to maintain at least some semblance of order, even only in work hours, even only when on the job – if Grell could only take a moment to sit back and realize just how far he is clawing everyone around him back - 

Then maybe -

William sinks to his knees amongst the cobwebbed stacks of history and despair, eyes shut tight as though that can let him stop seeing the endless, unpreventable future that rolls out before him, and chides himself for letting tears fall.


End file.
